


Flash Before Your Eyes

by distinctive_pineapples



Series: Flashes 'verse [1]
Category: Chuck (TV), White Collar
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Gen, Neal Caffrey is Bryce Larkin, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-27 10:16:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10007864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distinctive_pineapples/pseuds/distinctive_pineapples
Summary: A bust gone wrong leaves Peter in possession of some very delicate information and in a bit of trouble. Good thing an old friend is in town for the first time in years.Otherwise known as the "Petersect" story; unrelated to the "False Faces" 'verse.(This was originally an excuse for me to finally develop an idea I've had for a long time and take a break from "False Faces" introspection. Things got a little out-of-hand.)





	1. Fast as Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> When I finally put the "False Faces" series up on AO3, everything before the ninth chapter had been written and published years ago. This story is the result of me trying my hand at writing Chuck and White Collar crossovers with my current writing style, and seeing as I had just come off of a very emotionally-draining "False Faces" chapter when I picked this back up, things turned a bit... comedic. There's still some tension and suspense and whatnot, but things are perhaps a little sillier than usual at times. Think of it this way: it's perhaps a little more Chuck in tone. 
> 
> I anticipate this to last three chapters (maybe four depending on how the third chapter develops), so there's a good chance that the complete story will be up within the next month or so, but I don't want to say anything for certain.
> 
> In the timeline, this falls post-series for both shows, and pretty much aligns with the current time. Therefore, it's about five years after Chuck and over two years since Neal... left on White Collar (making it a little over a year since Peter found the storage container and the episode actually ended). The only AU-ish element here is the fact that Diana is still with the New York White Collar team rather than in DC, though I suppose she could have easily returned in the year between episode's end and this story.
> 
> Enjoy!

_This isn’t good._           

Peter Burke took one look at the melee of FBI agents and criminals before him and heaved a deep sigh before making his way forward.

All of their intel had suggested that Marcus Holt, the forger behind the White Collar division’s latest case, ran his operation with a fairly small group of allies. It had been a surprise to find their hiding place, which was much larger and more heavily fortified than would be expected for such a minor group of thieves.

The confusion didn’t end there. By the time Peter and his fellow agents—armed with a warrant—descended upon the compound, they were met by a torrent of criminals in the midst of packing everything up and fleeing. Somehow, they were aware that the FBI was closing in and had begun preparations to clear out; they just didn’t start soon enough. What should have been an unexpected raid became a game of “find-the-bad-guys-and-evidence-in-this-huge-empty-compound,” and the FBI had a pretty good lead.

Luckily enough, most of Holt’s men were collared close to the entrance that the agents had stormed through, but there was still a lot of ground to cover and stragglers and potential evidence to find. So Peter forged on ahead, alerting his team of the zone he planned to cover.

The first hallway he walked along was mostly vacant, save for one room on the left side just before the hall dead-ended. Drawing his weapon, Peter crept closer, taking care not to alert anyone who might be hiding in the room.

Stealth was a good idea, for when Peter had inched close enough to peek around the threshold, he found the team’s prime target. Marcus Holt was huddled around something in the center of the room and seemed quite jittery. He had likely been informed of the FBI’s presence at his secret base and had hurried to retrieve something. Peter squinted and leaned out a little bit more in the hopes of getting a glimpse of what exactly had captured the forger’s attention. Soon enough, he could see the object of interest more clearly.

 _It’s just a computer,_ Peter realized as he noticed the console in the middle of the room. _But why would there be a whole room dedicated to a computer?_

Theories about secret government operations and super soldiers filled his mind, and Peter let out a loud sigh. He really had to stop speaking to Mozzie, or at least tune him out whenever he started going on one of his conspiracy rants.

As Holt shifted so he no longer obscured the computer, Peter scrutinized the console in curiosity. The computer itself was fairly old—Peter was pretty sure Roark Instruments stopped producing that model in the late ‘80s—but the hub to which it was attached was clearly from a later time period. Peter would even go so far as to call it futuristic, once he noticed the eerie blue glow of the cube situated at the center of the hub. Whatever this machine was, it clearly wasn’t a shoddy effort.

The FBI agent was drawn out of his thoughts by his target’s increased fidgeting. Holt must have been dead-set on trying to secure—or even destroy—any evidence of his ring’s activities. However, the computer was plugging along too slow for his liking, which led to increasingly agitated murmurs of “Come on come on come on…” directed at the console.

Peter took advantage of this distraction by stepping out from his hiding place and offering a firm declaration of “FBI, hands in the air!” and a gun leveled at the other man’s chest as a greeting.

Holt hastily removed his fingers from the keyboard and lifted his hands, slowly turning to face Peter. Instead of the expected frustration and resentment—or even reluctant submissiveness—of a cornered criminal, though, the man’s expression was oddly smug.

“They said using my operation as a front would take the heat off of us all,” he told Peter, punctuating the confession with a sharp laugh. “They’d have a smokescreen to hide whatever they’re _really_ up to, and they’d let me go about my business as usual but with a little extra… security. Anyone picks up the slightest scent of either of our operations, and not only does it mysteriously disappear, but so do the bodies.”

“Who are they?” Peter demanded, motioning brusquely with his gun for Holt to place his hands behind his head. Even if this story was just some attempt for Holt to cover up his dealings, Peter played along to keep him distracted. “What do they want?”

Holt’s smirk grew even larger, and he glanced over at the computer just as it emitted a curt beep. Peter jerked his head to see a green progress bar inch its way to 89% capacity, the words _Preparing upload_ flashing above the bar.

“They seemed _real_ interested in this old thing,” Holt drawled nonchalantly as Peter moved towards the console. “Not sure what it is, but they were always so careful and protective of it—just like I am of my business. So I figured if they’re gonna screw me over, then I should return the favor. I’ll let it run, see if it’s worth their sloppy mistakes. I doubt it, but even if it is, well, there are some _nasty_ viruses out there these days.”

If Peter couldn’t find a way to disconnect the computer, he noted the device Holt had hooked up to the computer, presumably armed with a virus poised to attack once the time was right. As much as he hated to listen to Holt, Peter was certain nothing good would come of the bar hitting full capacity.

To top that off, there appeared to be no way to shut down the machine. By that point, Peter’s gut was screaming at him to _run, get out_. So he shot off towards the door—just as the green bar hit 100%

The previously white room exploded in color, and Peter stopped dead in his tracks as thousands of pictures manifested on the walls. The images flickered frenetically like strobe lights, each one flashing so fast that it was near impossible to get a good glimpse.

Peter had no idea what was going on or what these pictures even meant, but he just couldn’t turn away. He felt his eyes dart back and forth in their sockets as they fought to memorize every image, but otherwise he was completely paralyzed. All he could focus on were the pictures— _Flower. Pie. Computer codes. Foreign dignitaries. Assassins. Pineapple._

In fact, Peter was so engrossed by the hypnotic images that he didn’t even register Holt’s terrified screams as he writhed in pain, seizing as his eyes darted about deliriously.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the images winked out in a burst of light and the white walls returned. The sudden change startled Peter, causing him to jolt forward and fall to his knees with a gasp. Clutching his head, he blinked a few times to clear his vision. Afterimages of meaningless scenes flashed before his eyes, but he managed to squint past them just enough to make out the shape of the hub a few feet away. From Peter’s vantage point, he could see the once-vibrant blue cube spinning at an unusually fast pace, as if the computer was overheating—Holt’s virus must have kicked in. Wheezing out a few shocked breaths, Peter clumsily dragged himself across the floor towards the computer and somehow forced himself into a semi-functional position on spaghetti-like legs in front of the screen.

While the progress bar and subsequent images had disappeared, the screen still displayed a single message—albeit a flickering one. Focusing his eyes on anything still gave Peter a massive headache, but he managed to get past the pain long enough to read the text before it completely sputtered out: _Intersect Upload Complete._

“I-Intersect upload?” Peter stammered as he jerked up and attempted to back away from the now-smoking console. A tingling wave of fear crept towards his heart. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

That was an answer that would have to wait until later. As soon as Peter was completely upright once more, the vertigo hit.

 _Dammit, Mozzie, one of your crazy conspiracies just_ had _to be real,_ was Peter’s last coherent thought before he felt his eyes roll back and his body topple towards the floor.

* * *

 

_“Boss… Bosssssss… Peeeeee-terrrrrr…”_

“Wha’?” the barely conscious man managed to mumble, his tongue too heavy to articulate the full word. He forced his eyes open to a blurry image of two people—a familiar-looking woman and man—hovering over him. The woman’s mouth moved slowly as if enunciating each syllable.

_“Peeeeeee-terrrrrrrr Burrrrrrrrkkkkkkke…”_

Huh. That name sounded familiar. The lethargic man tried to push through the foggy haze in his mind to remember where he’d heard it before. He could already feel it triggering his memory…

Oh. Right. It was _his_ name. Peter Burke. It was time to wake up.

With a groan, Peter squeezed his eyes shut before opening them once more. Everything was still spinning at first sight, but it only took a moment before Peter could recognize Diana and Jones without getting motion sickness.

“Boss? Peter, are you alright?” Diana asked, her voice laced with worry. Peter grunted out an indistinguishable response as he struggled to sit upright; when that failed, Diana placed an arm around his shoulders and slowly eased him up.

It took another moment for Peter to unscramble his mind enough to form semi-coherent sentences, but he got there. “I… I _think_ so,” he finally managed to mumble, still disoriented. “What happened?”

Jones spoke up this time. “We were hoping _you_ could tell _us_. We finished the sweep of our area of the compound and ended up in what must have been a war-room of sorts—it was stocked with all these high-tech screens and weaponry, like the ultimate evil villain lair.” Diana cut him off with a “Not relevant, geek out later and get to the point” glare, and Jones promptly cleared his throat. “Anyways, by the time we got there, some of the escaped criminals had already cleared it out—took an armload of weapons and anything that could have told us their plans with them. But just when we were going to canvass the next sector, we heard someone scream. While it didn’t sound like you, we realized it was coming from the wing you were patrolling and ran all the way here. By the time we got here, you were lying unconscious next to the computer hub and Marcus Holt…”

Jones trailed off with a horrified shudder and risked a glance at something over Peter’s shoulder. Craning his neck to follow Jones’s line of sight, Peter sucked in a stunned breath at the sight that awaited him.

Holt was sprawled in the middle of the floor, arms and legs akimbo. Blank eyes stared up at the stark white ceiling, forever widened to accompany an expression of primal terror.

Having seen enough, Peter tore his eyes away as soon as he could. Though the answer was clear, he still choked out the question. “Is… is he…?”

Jones spared him the horror of continuing with a grim nod.

Diana still held a firm grip on Peter’s shoulder, though Peter could feel a waver of fear course through it. “While I hate to ask this when you’re still recovering, we need to know,” she said, voice ghosting over the words. “Boss, what the _hell_ happened?”

 _What the hell happened?_ That wasn’t a question Peter could answer without earning a one-way ticket to a mandatory psych eval (though at this point, it seemed inevitable either way). The computer hub ran a program that had random images flashing on the walls so fast that they literally fried a man’s brain—yeah, like _that_ wasn’t something straight out of a sci-fi horror flick. So instead of sharing his hallucination-like experience with the two junior agents, Peter opted for a heavily redacted report on the incident. “Holt… he was trying to destroy some information from the computer—said it was some project from another group using him as a front. I stepped in to try and stop him but… I must have blacked out. Next thing I know, I’m waking up to you two hovering over me.”

Diana and Jones seemed to buy the lie, and they shared a worried glance over the senior agent’s wellbeing. What had really happened in here, and why couldn’t their boss remember?

After a few moments of silence, Diana stood up and stepped over to the console to examine it. She frowned at the screen as she tapped a few keys, clearly unable to find anything useful. The frown deepened upon a glance at Holt’s device and then the cube encased in the hub, now blackened and completely still.

“Looks like Holt succeeded in destroying his evidence,” she remarked, eyeing the cube in curiosity. “Whatever virus he unleashed here sure did its job.”

Peter nodded in understanding, wincing as he rubbed at his screaming temples. “We’ll have the guys in Cyber Crimes scrub it for any remaining information once we get it back to the bureau.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” a new voice rang out, heralding the sound of

safeties clicking off multiple guns. The FBI agents turned towards the doorway just in time to see seven armed men place them in their crosshairs.

The man at the head of the group grinned maliciously at his prey, sending a chill down Peter’s back. He took a few steps forward, not lowering his gun the slightest.

“Well, agents, I have to admit I’m impressed—tracking down any faction of our organization isn’t an easy feat. However, I do believe you are deeply, _tragically_ in over your heads. But perhaps we can strike a deal—tell us what you did to the Intersect, and we’ll let you go unharmed.” There was a slight pause, and then he smirked again. “Hm, I don’t think I need to tell you what’ll happen if you keep mum.”

When the man—clearly the leader of the band—mentioned the word “Intersect,” Peter’s ears perked up. There it was again. He could speak up, but he was fairly certain this group would not follow up on their promise.

“The Intersect?” Diana repeated, raising an eyebrow at this bit of information. “If that’s whatever was on your computer here, then you’d be better off questioning your benefactor.” She jerked her head towards the man in question, still spread-eagle on the ground. “Though I don’t know how much you’d be able to get out of him.”

“You’d be surprised,” the ringleader replied, his nonchalance chilling. “Though I reckon he’s not the only one from whom I could obtain the information.” He scanned all three agents’ faces, looking for any telltale signs. “No takers?” he wondered aloud. “Pity. I do wish you could have gone out in a more honorable way, but we have bigger agencies to topple.” At that, he shifted his weapon towards Jones and inched his finger towards the trigger.

That motion was a trigger in itself. Just as the leader prepared to shoot, Peter’s eyes rolled back, and a kaleidoscope of colors exploded in his field of vision. Computer code transformed into illustrations of fighting styles and Chinese characters, and suddenly Peter _knew_ what he had to do. So in the split second before Jones’s life could be cut short, Peter’s eyes snapped open and he sprang into action.

Naturally, the first step was taking out the ringleader. A well-aimed kick to the hand knocked the gun out of the equation and sent him staggering back in surprise. A few more punches and a methodical chop to the base of neck later, and he was out for the count.

The remaining six didn’t stand a chance. Chops and swings, kicks and leg-sweeps, one by one the ring members were felled by Peter’s newfound hand-to-gun combat skills. Fighting back wasn’t an option—Peter was able to quash any threat the moment an adversary made a move.

Seven down, none to go. The adrenaline high and whatever else had driven Peter’s action-movie sequence immediately began to peter out, leaving the FBI agent in a defensive stance and breathing heavily. He stiffened as he glanced from his balled fists to the unconscious forms of the ring members and pieced two and two together, no matter how improbable it seemed. The best Peter could do to calm himself came in the form of a mantra he was already having difficulty following:

 “Don’t freak out.”

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Jones and Diana shared a look of incredulity as they gawked at their boss, who was frozen in place looking just as stunned as they felt.

“You mind explaining to me what just happened?” Diana demanded, turning to Jones.

Jones didn’t blink. “I don’t know, but last time I checked, Peter Burke did _not_ know kung-fu.”


	2. Dropping In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Air vents, old friends, and an Intersect. Bryce could be having a better day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, Neal Caffrey (or Bryce Larkin, as he's going by once again) returns to New York. As always, I had a really fun time with his character, though my interpretation of him is much more subtle this time around. I might get into things a little bit more in the coming chapters.
> 
> Not much to say this time around. There's a bit of silliness here and secrets start to come out, but at its heart I'd say this is a bit of a feels-y chapter.

_This… isn’t good._

Upon discovering that the FBI had raided the last known residence of his mission targets, Bryce Larkin had taken a moment to bury his face in his hands and hold back a scream of exasperation. The operation had scattered the rogue agents he was meant to deal with—sure, that made his job much more difficult, but there was surely some data to be salvaged or an indication of where they would reconvene hidden somewhere within the compound. Therein lay the _actual_ problem.

In most cases, getting past guards—regardless of their skill levels—would be a simple feat, and the FBI wouldn’t have been an exception. However, the fact that the team in charge of the investigation was the New York field office’s White Collar division complicated things.

It had been more than two years since Bryce had set foot in New York or the White Collar offices, but he still should have hesitated before accepting the assignment. Even if he intended to keep a _very_ low profile and stay away from his old haunts (and old friends)… well, Bryce’s life had a tendency to set a collision course for trouble without his consent. It might have been a better idea to sit this one out and let someone else handle it.

But Bryce knew the city best, and he was the drifter—the only member of Carmichael Industries without a permanent base of operations. Plus, Steph’s third birthday was coming up soon, and it wouldn’t have been fair to make her parents come out to deal with the situation simply because Bryce was dead-set on avoiding his past. After all he had done to them (good intentions or otherwise) and all they had done _for_ him upon his latest reappearance in their lives, Bryce owed it to Chuck and Sarah Bartowski.

It still didn’t make his dilemma any easier. Even if the agents he encountered were new to the team and unaware of his prior association to it, Bryce was bound to run into trouble if his description reached certain ears within the department. It was best to avoid the FBI agents surrounding and moving about the building altogether.

This was how Bryce found himself crawling on his stomach through the air vents of an evil spy base now in the custody of the FBI. It had been a bit risky to sneak onto the roof to find the main airshaft, but he’d managed to do so without alerting any of the agents pacing the grounds. Now it was just a matter of finding an exit free from FBI occupation out of which he could sneak and begin his search.

It was slow going, and not just because of the pace at which Bryce was making his way through the compound. The team was being very thorough in their examination of the scene, as each potential exit he had come across thus far would have dropped him in the presence of at least one agent.

This fruitless search didn’t last much longer. Soon enough, Bryce found himself over a space that was presumably empty, if the lack of chatter and footsteps were any indication. To make certain, he peered down through the grate below him, getting a glimpse through the ceiling of the room.

It seemed clear enough from what little Bryce could see, but the sea of white before him was… unnerving, to say the least. Memories of gunshots and gut shots and a terrifying blackness after such a brilliant white crept to the forefront of his mind, but Bryce shook them away—this wasn’t the time. Carefully, he gripped the edges of the grate and slowly began to remove it so he could drop down.

Just as he was about to do so, though, a voice reached his ear, and he froze upon realizing how close it was.

“…Just don’t understand it,” Bryce heard, and he stiffened at the familiar sound. “Holt isn’t known for taking aggressive measures in his operations unless absolutely necessary. So then what was with the armory and those guys who cornered us?”

“Peter said another organization had been using Holt as a front,” another voice responded, and Bryce smothered a groan upon recognizing the speaker. “All of the weapons were likely theirs, and from how it sounded, so was this.” Footsteps echoed as they moved towards the center of the room and then came to a halt. “Holt did a pretty thorough job of destroying the evidence—whatever it was, it must have been pretty valuable to his buddies.”

Silence fell, and Bryce hung his head in disbelief. _Of course_ this would happen—he was stuck in the ceiling above a room that had a good shot of giving him some insight to what exactly these enemy spies were up to, except it also held two pieces of the past he’d long evaded. Fate didn’t like to make things easy on him, did it?

The sentiment was confirmed once more a moment later, when the metal beneath him suddenly decided to give under the strain of his weight and dumped him from the ceiling.

Bryce would have liked to say that he landed in a perfect crouch with nary a grunt nor moan of pain, but that would be yet another lie to add to his tower of falsehoods. Instead, he managed a startled yelp before unceremoniously smacking facedown against the floor.

The sight of a strange man falling from the ceiling in a rain of plaster and flailing limbs provoked the other two people in the room to draw their weapons, if the simultaneous clicks of guns cocking were anything to go by. Bryce had to commend them for being so quick on the draw, but would have to act quickly if he didn’t want them to actually take a shot. Although, there wasn’t any guarantee that his next move would dissuade them.

_Should have known this would happen sooner or later_ , Bryce thought to himself with a sigh, before steeling himself and rolling onto his side to greet his old friends. “Hey Jones, Diana. It’s been a while.”

Jones staggered back a bit as if struck, mouth slightly agape upon seeing a man two years dead before him once more. Diana, on the other hand, drew her lips into a tight line and leveled her gun. “Neal. Considering you’re supposed to be dead, it really hasn’t been that long.”

“Touché.” After a moment, Bryce furrowed his brow at his former allies’ reactions. “I take it Peter never said anything about, well…” He waved his free hand to gesture to himself.

Diana’s eyes went wide for a moment before they narrowed in anger, though she lowered her gun a bit. Having recovered from the initial shock, Jones stepped up to reply. “It was… sometime after that first year you were gone when Peter changed. He’d been in mourning for so long—we _all_ were, but there was no doubt that his grief was consuming him even as he moved on with life—but then there was this abrupt uptick. It was almost like the Peter from before was back, but it seemed like he was on the trail of something and couldn’t afford to lose it. It was too reminiscent of how he was when he was trying to catch you, so we were worried that he’d found something that had him chasing a ghost. We never confronted him about it, but _clearly_ we were onto something.”

Bryce winced. That must have been around the time Peter discovered the storage container of clues pointing towards Neal’s survival. He’d left enough of a trail for Peter to track him to France (where Bryce had intended to remain for some time to collect his thoughts), but before Peter could catch up, some old antagonists with long-held grudges yanked Bryce back into the spy life.

It took some old friends with not as many grudges to get him out of trouble and help set him on his newest path in life. Chuck had offered him a full-time position with Carmichael Industries, but Bryce declined in favor of more of a freelance option—he’d be happy to help when asked, but after dying or faking his death numerous times, Bryce figured he was due for some sort of retirement from spying. Between jobs for Chuck and co., he spent his time traveling and picking up work here and there that allowed him to use his broad skill set with art, computers, martial arts, and people. It was a pretty solitary life at times, but after the mess he’d made of his life as Bryce Larkin, spy, and after he’d had to burn his cover life as Neal Caffrey, it was good to have some time to reflect and figure out the future.

Noticing Bryce’s reaction, Jones continued. “While I’m glad to know you’re not dead and that you at least let Peter know, I’m not sure I can forgive you for putting us all through the grief of your death.”

Bryce nodded, throat tight. “Understood. For what it’s worth, I _am_ sorry for what I did. I saw it as my only way out of a bad situation and the only way to protect those I cared about. I probably could have learned from prior experience that it would do more harm than good.”

Jones and Diana exchanged a glance, as if considering the sincerity of Bryce’s apology. Seemingly satisfied, they turned back to him, but Diana was struck by a certain detail and frowned. “Now that that’s all settled, what _I’d_ really like to know is what exactly you’re doing here and how you even managed to get on the premises.”

Ah, right—that was something Bryce would have to figure out how to explain. He finally pushed himself up and onto his feet, brushing off the plaster dust coating his dark clothes (he noted how the agents’ eyebrows rose upon realizing that he was clad in a much more casual outfit than Neal Caffrey traditionally wore). Finished, he straightened, only to be hit with the realization that a crucial member of their old team was missing. “Wait, where’s Peter?”

Though he was probably aware that Bryce was stalling, Jones explained. “Hospital. He headed for this zone during the raid, and when we caught up to him, he was unconscious on the floor with our perp dead a few feet away. We’re still trying to figure out what happened, but everything seems to point to whatever was on that computer.”

Bryce froze up upon hearing “hospital,” but his heart stopped when his attention turned to the outdated console in the center of the room. _No, no, not again,_ his mind gasped, panic already setting in. He couldn’t afford to break down now, not in front of two people he had grown to respect—to trust—who had no idea of the life he’d led and lost before the anklet was first clipped on. But as he staggered towards the monitor, flashes of color and the metallic scent of blood and Chuck’s desperate pleas filling his mind, he knew Diana and Jones could see how violently he was trembling.

The familiar cube housed within the console was scorched and ashy, as if it had overheated, and Bryce inferred that the smaller device connected to the machine had something to do with its destruction. But had the virus been activated before the program was run, or did someone manage to download whatever secrets these rogue agents had managed to compile first?

Turning slowly towards Diana and Jones, Bryce struggled to keep his voice level as he asked what could be a very crucial question: “Does ‘Intersect’ mean anything in particular to either of you?”

While neither lapsed into the telltale eye-fluttering of a flash, the two agents glanced at him suspiciously. “You saying you know something about this thing, Caffrey?” Diana returned, a single eyebrow raised.

“I’m saying I know how devastating it can be if it ends up in the wrong hands.”

Even more curious and wary, Diana prepared to continue her interrogation, but Jones interrupted with a scoff. “I’ll say. We were almost killed because of this ‘Intersect,’ whatever it is. But then Peter jumped in and singled-handedly took down all seven guys.”

Bryce couldn’t help but blink blankly at that. “Pardon?”

Diana sighed, seeing that they weren’t going to get any information out of the once-dead man unless they spilled first. “The leader was about to shoot Jones, but then Peter got this _look_ on his face and suddenly he’s a martial arts superstar. Saved our lives, but it was too fantastical to be believable.”

Whatever color remained in Bryce’s face during this whole scenario effectively drained out at Diana’s description. It gave him the information he needed, though the answer was certainly regrettable.

“Which hospital?” he choked, fumbling through the inner pocket of his leather jacket to find his phone. Assuming Jones and Diana’s reports were accurate and Peter had miraculously become a kung-fu master thanks to a certain program, it was time to give Chuck a heads-up.

Crossing her arms across her chest, Diana shook her head. “Nope, you don’t get that information until you tell us why you suddenly dropped in after over two years of playing dead and how you know so much about this thing.” She nodded towards the Intersect hub. “Just what kind of trouble are you up to these days, Caffrey?”

Bryce sighed—it looked like he was going to have to delve into _some_ version of the truth if he wanted to get in touch with Peter. Holding a hand up in surrender, he reached into his jacket to pull out his latest credentials and tossed them to Jones. “I do a little work in private security sometimes—usually infiltration and extraction, and violence-free, if I can help it. One of my latest assignments led me here. I was supposed to find whatever group was holed up in this compound, but the data on that computer is equally important.”

Jones flipped open the leather folder to look over the ID card encased in it. “Yeah, I’ve heard of Carmichael Industries. How’d you manage to land a job with them, considering your record?”

“Old friends. They wanted to thank me for some of the things I’ve done for them, while simultaneously getting back at me for previous indiscretions. They have the authority to assign me to the dirtiest or most embarrassing jobs out of petty revenge, but they still look to me as family.”

A sad smile crossed Jones’s face at the last comment, and Bryce’s heart hurt as he read the sentiment behind it: _We all would have done the same if you had come back—familial acceptance and all._ But the moment passed as Jones gave the credentials to Diana for further scrutiny.

“Bryce Larkin, huh?” She glanced up at Bryce, who gave a small bow. Despite the danger of being recognized by enemies or college cohorts (or both) who’d long thought him dead, Bryce still operated under his professional name. It was no more real than Bruce Anderson or Neal Caffrey or Danny Brooks, and his records under the name had been sealed away upon his 2009 death (and General Beckman and Chuck had secured them even more once he officially resigned from the CIA after life as Neal). It was a risk, sure, but Bryce had spent so much of his life hiding pieces of himself that he was just… tired. If some old antagonist went after him for something he’d done a lifetime ago all because he was still using one of his more infamous names, then so be it.

With a shrug, Diana snapped the folder closed and tossed it back to Bryce. “I take it that’s all we’re going to get out of you for the time being?”

Bryce couldn’t help it—he flashed the old Caffrey Grin and reveled in the familiar sight of Diana and Jones rolling their eyes. He dropped it a moment later in favor of a more somber expression. “Until I get a chance to talk with Peter, that’s it. If my assumptions are correct, then I’ll have a lot to explain.”

The FBI agents’ eyes widened—death, faked or not, must have changed things if someone as secretive as Neal Caffrey was willing to talk. They were taken aback for a moment, but Jones recovered and nodded.

“Great.” Bryce began to move forward, eager to escape the room that was much too similar to the ones that led to his previous deaths. However, before he could get too far, Diana grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back as she cuffed him.

“You said something about old friends and petty revenge?” she asked, her voice taking on a sickly sweet tone of which Bryce had never expected her to be capable—it was _weird_. “Welcome to the family, _Bryce_.”

Okay, yeah, he probably deserved that. As Diana led him out of the room with Jones trailing behind (likely recording the scene for a good laugh later on), Bryce made a mental note to _never_ let Diana Berrigan be in the same room as Sarah Walker-Bartowski and Ellie Bartowski-Woodcomb—he wouldn’t survive that particular meeting of minds.

* * *

“Well, Agent Burke, you seem to be doing fine—no concussion,” the doctor announced, turning to the file in her hands. “Everything else seems to check out, so unless you have some concerns we can probably forgo any additional tests. You should be able to check out shortly, but keep monitoring your condition and don’t hesitate to reach out for help if anything seems off later on.”

Peter discreetly breathed a sigh of relief at the news and thanked the doctor as she left the room. The fact that he had been unconscious when Diana and Jones found him had been a cause for concern, but Peter could tell that a concussion wasn’t one of the side effects. Even if he took a small knock to the head on the way down, it didn’t explain why his brain felt as if it was throbbing and unusually swollen.

Perhaps that should have been a hint that something more was in play and a brain scan might have uncovered some crucial information, but after all that happened back at the compound, with Holt and the computer program ( _the Intersect_ ) and the ring members and how Peter managed to take them all out with newfound martial arts abilities… there was something warning Peter to take caution with this information. He’d nearly lost some of his best agents and longtime allies due to this “Intersect,” and if they had been threatened like that without actually having any intel, then Peter couldn’t fathom how a confrontation would go when the opponent knew that they knew something—knew that Peter had _seen_ something.

From the pressure in his head and the occasional afterimages of the photos that had flashed on the walls when Holt activated the program (not to mention the kung-fu), Peter could tell that the Intersect had somehow affected him. He’d somehow committed thousands upon thousands of images to memory, and each one was capable of triggering some sort of response—that _definitely_ sounded like science fiction. But as hard to believe as it was, there was some part of Peter that knew that this was real, and that an MRI or other tests might unveil something that would best be kept hidden.

He mulled over the situation as he filled out his release forms, eager to be out of the hospital and safely back home, where he could work things out with more secrecy. After turning them in and being sent on his way, Peter exited the automatic doors of the hospital to hail a cab, only to find Diana leaning against the passenger door of an agency SUV.

“Hey boss,” she greeted. “Feeling any better?”

Despite having known Diana for so long and trusting her with his life, Peter pushed his current dilemma to the back of his mind so he could convince her that he was much better off than he actually was. “Well, they let me go, so I’ll take that as a win. Still, it’s been a long day, so all I want to do is go home to my wife and son and then _sleep_.”

Diana nodded in understanding, but then an uneasy look crossed her face. “Before we get to that, though, a certain someone showed up at the crime scene after you left, and was adamant that we take him to you.” At that, she opened the rear passenger door.

Even though Peter had been aware of his survival for more than a year, it was still a bit overwhelming to see Neal Caffrey in the flesh, seated just feet in front of him in the backseat of the SUV.

“Hey Peter,” he acknowledged, and it almost hurt Peter to hear his friend’s voice again in something other than a recording or memory.

He managed to respond with a short “Neal,” and if it was a little watery, Peter didn’t care to cover it up. He hoisted himself into the back to join the once-dead con man, just as Diana closed the door and climbed into the front passenger seat so Jones—who Peter could now identify as the driver—could pull away.

Silence filled the car as Peter took a good look at Neal, cataloging how he’d changed in the last two years. He wasn’t as impeccably dressed, if the leather jacket and dark slacks were anything to go by, but he somehow maintained the classic Caffrey look with the rest of his appearance (even if it was a little more disheveled than usual). Upon further scrutiny, Peter noticed some white flecks of what appeared to be plaster clinging to Neal’s hair and jacket; that, coupled with the realization that Neal’s hands were secured behind his back with handcuffs, led Peter to bury his already aching head in his hand.

“What did you do now, Neal?” he gritted out. “I tried my best to keep track of you for the last year or so, and considering things were pretty quiet—no major heists that matched your style—I thought you were going straight for once. But now you’re here and you’re handcuffed, and Diana tells me that she and Jones picked you up at the crime scene. Just what exactly are you up to?”

Neal at least had the decency to look a little ashamed at that. “To be fair, the cuffs are only here because Diana’s angry with me for the last few years, and in a show of good faith I’ve refrained from picking the lock.” He glanced at Diana to drive this point home, before turning back to Peter with a more serious expression. “I’ll get to the reason why I’m here in a moment, but first, what can you tell me about Project Provenance?”

Peter faintly registered noises of confusion from Jones and Diana, before the pressure in his head swelled even more and caused his eyes to roll back slightly in a somewhat familiar feeling. He recognized it as the sensation from before his little kung-fu takedown too late to stop it.

_Project Provenance. Espionage operation headed directly by CIA Director Graham, later General Beckman of the NSA. Intended to gather intel from goings-on in the criminal underworld and eventually the FBI. Alias: Neal Caffrey. Agent-in-charge: Bryce Larkin, CIA._

Just as soon as he’d lapsed into that flash of information, Peter jolted out of it to come face-to-face with Neal— _Bryce_ , if the intel in his head was to be believed—who wore a grim expression upon witnessing Peter’s reaction to his words.

“Well, that confirms _that_ theory,” he mumbled, letting his head fall back against the seat in what looked like defeat. “Guess I have a _lot_ of explaining to do tonight.”

Peter was about agree with that sentiment, but the weight of the secrets he’d just uncovered threatened to overwhelm him. He moved to lean his head back as well, but suddenly fell into yet another “flash,” this time of letters and accents.

“ _Ne paràzz be_ ,” he muttered before moving to pinch the bridge of his nose. So much for going home and getting some sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ne paràzz be (Hungarian) = Don't freak out [translation courtesy of my good friend Mari]
> 
> I find Neal-Bryce to be a very fascinating character this time around. Like his "False Faces" counterpart, he’s a conflicted character, though not necessarily for the same reasons, and he’s much quieter in general. When writing this chapter, I approached him as a guy who’s spent most of his life under different names and nearly fifteen years as a spy, and has died or had to fake his death at the expense of losing his friends too many times; all of that has piled up, and he’s collapsed under the weight. It’s left him feeling a bit listless and empty, and even though reconnecting with Team Bartowski and doing a little spy work has helped, they’ve all changed too much for things to really be set right. So as much as he’s tried to avoid coming back to New York (and the fact that the situation could be better), this is probably the one thing Neal-Bryce needs right now. 
> 
> The next chapter will bring explanations about a couple different things. Pack an umbrella, I predict more feels.


	3. Tell Me About It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which secrets come out, Peter confronts Bryce about Neal, and Chuck nags Bryce about his life choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, this is a very dialogue-heavy chapter, because there were a couple different conversations I wanted to include. It might be a bit dense, but most of it is important to understanding character relationships in this story. Otherwise, this chapter is another good mix of dramatic and silly, which includes a hilarious homage to an awkward (err… awesome) sequence from very early in Chuck canon.
> 
> Suspension of disbelief may be required more than normal here, just because the Intersect has a lot of mythology and some things still had never been fully explained. I do poke fun at my simplification of one element, but I still wanted to acknowledge it.

“This is…”

“Ridiculous?”

“Kind of awesome?”

“A mess, like my life in general?”

“ _Not good_ ,” Peter concluded, glaring at the three people who’d rudely interrupted him mid-thought. Diana was clearly displeased by the entire situation, while Jones was a bit starry-eyed, and Neal… _Bryce_ just looked like he wanted to crawl into the ground.

Well, Peter couldn’t blame him. After discovering that he’d accidentally downloaded a database of stolen government secrets directly into his brain and that his not-actually-a-con-man friend was _very_ well acquainted with said database, Peter was torn between helping Bryce accomplish that feat because of all the secrets, or simply joining him to escape from this chaos.

The last hour or so had been such a blur. It had been one thing to take out a group of antagonists with newfound martial arts skills, but having a sudden data-dump that dismantled everything Peter thought he knew about the greatest case of his career and the subsequent partnership. Neal Caffrey was a spy, a CIA agent sent to infiltrate the criminal underworld and the FBI? That was enough information to knock Peter out of commission for the rest of the drive to his home, much to Jones and Diana’s worry.

Bryce had managed to placate the other agents by promising to explain everything—including what Peter had discovered—once they got settled in the Burke residence. He’d been stunned to see Elizabeth already sitting in the living room (she’d taken the day to work from home), but recovered enough to agree to include her in the discussion to follow.

The decision had shocked Peter—Neal or Bryce or whoever he was had kept his agency status under lock-and-key for years, and yet he was willing to tell all to three FBI agents and a civilian? Either he’d become much more lax in his methods in the past two years, or he trusted them enough to handle a great deal of classified information.

The jury was still out on that one. Bryce had opened with his true identity for those without that information in their heads (although Peter had been surprised to hear that he was _formerly_ of the CIA and now employed with Carmichael Industries). He barely gave the others enough time to scrape their jaws off the floor before he barreled into the backstory to the day’s events—how there existed a supercomputer capable of condensing millions of secrets and skills into tiny pictures, which could then be processed by certain people to make them human weapons, and congratulations, Peter was one of the lucky winners, even if it was accidental.

The moment he finished spouting off everything he must have considered crucial information, Bryce fell completely silent and his face went blank. It was almost as if he was a robot of some sort, who’d been booted up to accomplish a specific directive and had promptly shut himself down once it had been completed. Normally it would be an outlandish idea, but given recent events, Peter had to wonder.

Surprisingly, El had been the first to recover. It was clear that she had also been struck by how detached Bryce was during the entire explanation, so she took the time to ease more information and a bit of clarification out of him. It worked—the second time around, Bryce took things a little bit slower and paused for any questions from the dumbstruck agents. It also didn’t escape their notice that he wasn’t quite as methodical in his responses this time, although it was still difficult to read the emotion in his voice. Peter couldn’t tell if the spy’s neutral tone was a means to wrangle his own conflicting feelings about confessing these secrets to old friends, or if he honestly didn’t care about the impact of his words. Hopefully it was the former, but Peter wasn’t going to ask outright.

This was how the three FBI agents and the ex-CI/CIA agent found themselves lamenting over the current situation. Perhaps it would have been better to focus their energy on figuring out where to go from there, but the shock of it all still hadn’t worn off. Nor had Peter’s headache—if anything, it felt like the pain had gotten worse. Maybe the Intersect had taken up so much space in his brain that he couldn’t easily accept or process new information? He’d have to ask Bryce about that later, since he was oh-so-knowledgeable about everything related to the program.

Thankfully, El returned to the living room with a bottle of aspirin, a glass of water, and a peck on the head. “Hope this helps, although I wish you would have said something sooner.”

“Thanks hon.” Peter returned the kiss before washing down a pill in the hopes that it would dull the screaming pain in his head. “Neal still down for his nap?”

His wife nodded affirmatively, and Peter tried to ignore how Bryce’s head jerked in surprise at the mention of the littlest Burke’s name. He and El had named their son in honor of their deceased friend, and even when Peter discovered the storage container and began his Caffrey search all over again, he longed for the day when he could introduce the younger Neal to his namesake. And now here they were—the three Burkes and the man who was once Neal Caffrey, all in the same house—yet Peter didn’t want Bryce Larkin to get anywhere near his son. He had perpetuated a lie that the Burkes and the rest of the White Collar team had been gullible enough to believe, and his very presence was a glaring reminder that the man for whom Peter had named his son never even existed.

Vaguely, Peter wondered if this was how Neal had felt when the fantasies of his heroic father had been annihilated by the truth about James Bennett, but he immediately shook the thought away. That was surely another falsity that Bryce had crafted to ensure Peter’s trust. (Peter dropped the subject altogether before his logic fell apart in the face of the fact that he’d actually met James, and the scenario surrounding his appearance didn’t read like a CIA operation.)

As consuming as they were, these personal problems would have to be set aside for the time being. The supercomputer straining Peter’s brain was a bigger concern, and, unfortunately, Bryce Larkin was his only hope. “Is there a way to remove this thing?” he asked, teeth clenched as he rubbed his temples.

Bryce barely met his eyes. “I have some friends who know the program better than I do and who have successfully removed Intersects before. However, without knowing the exact program you were exposed to, it’ll be difficult to construct the correct removal sequence. Using a substitute would likely do more harm than good.”

“Holt destroyed the program,” Diana reminded. “I doubt we’ll be able to scrub anything worthwhile from the remains.”

“True, but these agents must have kept blueprints, if not a compressed copy of their Intersect. Having backups is worth the risk if you have to clear out of a hideout at the last minute, or if the original is somehow corrupted.”

Peter felt his face contort into an expression of displeasure at the response and Bryce himself, and the sentiment subtly leaked into his words. “Except this information is in the wind with the rest of the crew, and we have no lead whatsoever. How do you propose we find them, hmm?”

Bryce had clearly caught on to Peter’s simmering resentment, if his barely masked look of pain said anything. He closed his eyes and puffed out a breath to prepare his response. “The reason why I’m even here in the first place is to round these guys up and put them out of commission. I’m not leaving until that objective is successfully completed. Let me get a good look at whatever evidence was confiscated from the compound and whatever information the FBI gleans from Holt’s crew—I’ll see what I can find and use it in conjunction with my own resources. Then I’ll find them, take them down, grab the data, get you the removal program, and we’re done.” He opened his eyes to return Peter’s stare. “You go your way and I go mine. Our paths don’t cross again.”

If the others in the room weren’t previously clued in to the tension between the former partners, then Bryce’s speech certainly did the trick. Peter felt El squeeze his shoulder with a bit more force than she would if it was meant as a comforting gesture, and Jones and Diana shared a look.

“We’re using your living room as a situation room, so it’s only fair that we offer to bring dinner,” Jones improvised, moving for the front door as Diana followed after a pointed glance between the two feuding parties. “We’ll be back after a while.”

The moment the door closed, Peter felt the couch cushion shift as El abruptly stood up and moved so she stood directly between her husband and the secret spy, arms folded across her chest. “Honestly, I thought you two would have grown out of this by now, but I guess absence reawakens some bad habits. Now, I’m going to give you the next half hour to sort out whatever hostility this is, and when I come back, you better be willing to work together to take down this spy ring and get the Intersect copy.” At that, she marched over to the stairs and started up the steps.

Both men listened as her footsteps faded after reaching her destination on the second floor, still processing the entire interaction. Silence reigned, until Bryce finally spoke up. “Well, now I feel like the kid who got caught drawing all over the walls with permanent marker.”

Peter snorted despite himself. “You and me both.”

Bryce smirked at the response, though it dropped as he sank to the floor to lean back against the wall. The action led Peter to take another good look at the man, as if one glance would confirm what he had been trying to convince himself of since learning of Project Provenance—that no scrap of Neal Caffrey actually existed in Bryce Larkin.

While he didn’t necessarily find the answer he was looking for, Peter did notice that Bryce looked exhausted. It wasn’t exactly in the run-down, lack of sleep sense, though—perhaps the better word was _world-weary_. Compared to Neal’s childish antics and airy personality, it was unnerving to see the man behind it all so weighed down and seemingly older than he actually was. Had this always been the case and Bryce was a spy skilled enough to hide it all away, or had something happened in the last two years that left him like this?

“You know, this is the first time I’ve been involved with an Intersect download and have lived to deal with the immediate aftermath,” Bryce finally spoke up, breaking into a bitter laugh. “I know more about the project than the average agent, but this? This is a bit out of my wheelhouse.”

Peter frowned at the cryptic comments, stomach tightening. “What do you mean?”

Bryce let his head roll to the side, dull eyes meeting Peter’s. “You know, Neal Caffrey’s death wasn’t the _only_ time I’ve had to die. It’s just one of the few that I actually planned and which didn’t involve me suffering fatal damage to my internal organs.”

Well _that_ sent Peter’s heart skidding to a stop in horror.

Either unaware of or unfazed by Peter’s reaction, Bryce continued. “The first time, it was a shot to the heart and my cover as a traitor was to blame. The second, the traitors were the ones shooting, and they got in a lucky hit.” He tugged the hem of his shirt up a bit, just enough so Peter could catch a glimpse of white scars on Bryce’s lower abdomen. “Started to fade a bit, but it’s still there. That was a nasty one—it took a while before the blood loss finally got me.”

“How- when was this?” Peter managed, fighting against his roiling stomach. He wasn’t sure if the churning was due to the morbid details or Bryce’s nonchalance in discussing them.

“That one was 2009, just a few months before I started working with you. The agency revived me and gave me a bit of recovery time before sending me off on one of my old open missions. I had always liked being Neal Caffrey—it was a somewhat quieter life, compared to the violence I frequently encountered on missions, but still exciting, and I reconnected with my longtime love of art. Plus, I met some really good friends along the way, even if I didn’t realize it until later on. So I was glad to have the chance to come back and see where this life took me, while still following my mission objectives. And honestly, it was the best I had felt in _years_.”

This time, Bryce’s mouth had contorted into a genuine smile before it collapsed once more. “But the thing is, I forgot it was a cover—a long-term one, but a cover nonetheless—and the fact that I might have to abandon it at a moment’s notice. When the Panthers and Keller came around, I got the order to do just that; I tried so hard to find a way around it, but with the time I had left I just couldn’t do it. So I did what I had to, set up the storage container, and ran before anything could really sink in, because otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to make myself leave.”

Silence fell once again, but this time there was no tension to be found. Peter was still in too much shock to feel much of anything, let alone think straight, so he had pretty much tuned out after Bryce finished his story. It had provided some very crucial (if painful) information regarding the man across from him, and Peter noted that his anger was gradually dissipating as empathy took over. However, there was still one question to which he needed to hear the answer:

“Was there anything about Neal Caffrey that was truly _you_?”

That brought some life back into Bryce’s eyes, even if it was in the form of surprise regarding Peter’s question. He opened his mouth to respond, but Peter cut him off before he could begin.

“I probably should have explained a few things before asking that. I promise you, I’m not upset that you’re back after all these years, or even because you’re a spy—I’m just struggling with the fact that someone I trusted and cared for is a CIA-constructed false identity. I want to be able to tell my son the true story of his Uncle Neal, rather than trying to uphold some fairy tale version with no real substance.”

That seemed to click with Bryce (Neal?), and he sat up a bit straighter. “Believe it or not, I was telling the truth when it came to my background. Bryce Larkin came after Ellen told me the real story about James—that was my act of rebellion, running away and going to college under a new legal name. At that point, all I wanted to do was to reinvent myself, to just be someone else, and it _worked_. Except the CIA recruited me and soon that was _all_ that my life was, and, well… I got a bit lost, made some bad moves and became nearly unrecognizable. The Neal Caffrey you know was a means for me to work my way back to myself, just with a few CIA-mandated crimes tacked on.”

“Except you lost that too,” Peter murmured, finally understanding.

The younger man nodded. “I reconnected with some old friends after I had to leave New York and resigned from the CIA, and while that was a little helpful, they’re really only familiar with Bryce—both the computer nerd and the spy. I made some decisions back then that had lasting effects, and even though they’ve somehow forgiven me… it’s been a long time and we’ve all changed. It’s not the same.” At that, he lowered his head, as if waiting for Peter to pass judgment.

He’d responded to that one crucial question, even if the answer wasn’t the clearest; then again, it sounded like a lot of things about the man were pretty hazy, and support from friends was key to making things right. Peter couldn’t deny him that.

“What’s your opinion on hyphenation?”

“What?” The man in question lifted his head to stare at Peter, clearly confused by the inquiry and by Peter’s growing smile.

“It sounds to me like Bryce Larkin and Neal Caffrey are two very influential pieces of your life, and you’ve never really had them bleed together like this before. And calling you by one name or the other… well, you’re not _just_ Neal, and I bet you’re not too comfortable with us thinking of you solely as Bryce.” Peter took a sip from his water glass as he kept eye contact, before leaning back and continuing. “I was thinking Neal-Bryce. Or Bryce-Neal. Are you partial to either of those options?”

“…You sure that computer in your head isn’t messing with your brain function?”

“I wouldn’t know. The hospital didn’t order any other tests.”

That did the trick. Peter could almost watch the weight of conflicting lives fall away and the familiar juvenile cheer return to Bryce’s— _Neal’s_ —face as he struggled to contain his laughter. The younger man seemed to be struck by the absurdity of Peter’s remarks, yet touched by the acceptance within the words. Peter supposed it was a bit like the Intersect: he’d compressed important information into something seemingly random, and its discovery was enough to trigger a reaction.

It took a few moments, but eventually the laughter died down. “I’ll pass on the hyphenation, thanks. Either is good, I guess—Neal _is_ my birth name, but I’ve legally been Bryce for nearly two decades. Call me whichever you prefer, although it could get confusing to have two Neals around.”

“Well, you’d just have to be Neal the Elder, then.”

“Makes me sound like a warlock or something,” the other man remarked, before he broke into a grin. “I love it.”

Peter shook his head at the enthusiasm, looking up as he did so. “Here I thought I knew everything about Neal Caffrey, and now there’s a completely different life I need to learn about.”

Neal shrugged. “We have time. Anything in particular you wanted to know?”

Some time later, Elizabeth returned downstairs—a barely-awake little Neal in her arms—to find the elder Neal typing away at the laptop she’d been meaning to take in for service, while her husband chastised him for not mentioning his computer skills _sooner_ , because they could have saved many a trip to the Nerd Herd. (The Neal with the computer found this unusually hilarious, which earned him a light thump on the head.) It had been too long since she’d seen the two men squabbling playfully, and the familiar sight warmed her heart.

The feeling was only one-upped when Neal squirmed in her arms until she let him go, only for him to make a beeline for “Unca Neal” and capture his namesake’s legs in a big hug.

“He recognized me on sight _and_ caught me on his first try,” the newly minted uncle remarked as got down to the littlest Burke’s level and gathered him in his arms. “You’re training him well.”

(If his always-sparkling eyes had an extra shine to them, well, it wasn’t Elizabeth’s place to comment.)

* * *

_“All right, now you’re just going to connect the chip to those two wires… There! Looks like you got it!”_

Releasing the breath he’d been holding as he carefully implanted a microchip inside the watch resting before him on the Burkes’ kitchen counter, Bryce dropped the tweezers and lifted the watch for a closer look. “Hard to believe that something so tiny is capable of counteracting Intersect-related decay, and here I’ve managed to make it with a bit of programming, some spare parts, an old watch, and a video call with my best friend. I feel like MacGyver.” He turned his gaze to the tablet screen. “Thanks, Chuck.”

 _“If the Governor wasn’t such a secret, I’d record this as a how-to video tutorial,”_ the head of Carmichael Industries quipped. _“Don’t forget to check out the videos on learning to tango in 5 minutes, defusing a bomb with a porn virus, and how to_ not _cut your friends out of your life by letting them think you’re dead because you’re a broody loner who thinks that they’d be better off without you. I highly recommend that last one for you.”_

“Low blow, buddy. _Low. Blow._ ”

 _“Oh come on, you’ve had countless gaming competitions with me—you know I can fight dirty when I want to. This really shouldn’t come as a surprise.”_ Chuck sighed and ran a hand through his short curls. _“I’m serious, though. We’ve already talked at length about this in terms of your second death, so I’m going to spare you that lecture, but… Bryce, you did it_ again. _You told me how much the Burkes and everyone else in New York meant to you, and yet you did everything in your power to stay away. Yeah, you at least left some clues hinting at your survival, but if Agent Burke hadn’t ended up with the Intersect, would you have ever actually reached out?”_

Bryce’s guilty silence was enough of an answer.

_“Yeah, that’s what I thought, Yoda. A skilled spy you may be, but you’ll hide away on your own personal Dagobah until everything you’ve been avoiding comes to you.”_

As much as Bryce wanted to protest, he had to admit that that was an uncomfortably spot-on analogy. “Sometimes you scare me with how intuitive you are.”

Chuck broke into a grin. _“It’s an acquired skill. Although, that reminds me…”_ He twisted in his seat and called over his shoulder, _“Stephanie Bryce Bartowski, you better not be rummaging around looking for your birthday presents!”_

The squealing giggle and sound of tiny feet hurrying down the hall behind Chuck were evidence enough that his warning had been necessary. Sighing, Chuck turned back to the screen. _“I should hope she’s not getting that from you. Steph seems to learn some troubling new skills every time ‘Uncle Bryce’ is on babysitting detail.”_

Bryce clutched at his chest and leaned back, seemingly affronted. “Your daughter’s digging into things she shouldn’t be, and you accuse _me_? Charles, you have some gall.”

The nerd rolled his eyes. _“You know, I’m starting to regret naming her partially after you. And for the sake of his parents, I hope you don’t plan on corrupting little Burke too.”_ The corners of his mouth tugged up, though, and he reached out in preparation to end the call. _“I’ve kept you long enough. Let me know how the Governor works out and whenever you find the Intersect. But for now, go spend some time with the Burkes and the rest of your friends. You’ve kept them waiting all this time, and hopefully this won’t be the last time you see them.”_

“Hopefully not,” Bryce agreed, grinning as Chuck’s face lit up. Ever since recovering Bryce after what happened in France and learning everything about Neal Caffrey’s life, the longtime human Intersect had been the most vocal advocate for Bryce to reunite with his New York friends (likely because he was glad that Bryce had managed to make other friends and didn’t want those relationships to suffer like theirs had). Chuck had been the one to track down Mozzie’s parents as a peace offering after the little man had crashed one of Bryce’s first Carmichael Industries missions, and Bryce was fairly certain that Chuck maintained some sort of correspondence with June. He suspected that Chuck was feeding her updates about her former boarder in exchange for her assistance in providing a safe house if needed, but Chuck refused to confirm anything and kept any evidence hidden—the _jerk_ , he was trying to pull a Neal Caffrey on the man who had once _been_ him—so it was nothing more than allegation.

Now that he’d finally fallen back into the life he’d had to leave behind, Bryce was once again finding it difficult to leave. He’d tried to convince himself that it would be best to just resolve the situation at hand and then vanish like the ghost he’d been until that day—especially earlier, when Peter had been upset with him—but now… well, he still wanted to pick up work with Carmichael Industries and do a little traveling, but maybe it was time to establish a more permanent residence. He’d still stop in Burbank from time to time for visits with the Bartowski family, and perhaps the allure of Paris was best kept as a daydream—New York had captured his heart long ago, and Bryce had been able to share it with some of the best friends he’d ever met. It was time to return _home_.

The two college friends exchanged a few final words regarding updates on the “Petersect” situation (as Bryce had jokingly called it) and reminders that the youngest Bartowski’s birthday was the following Tuesday before they ended the call. Bryce let out a breath before he gathered his tablet and the newly completed Governor in his arms and opened the door separating the kitchen from the living area.

Diana and Jones had returned with Chinese takeout—and Theo, so his mother could keep an eye on him and he could play with little Neal—a while back, shortly before Bryce went into the kitchen to contact Chuck. The empty containers had been set aside on one end of the dining room table to make room for evidence photos from the compound and a few other FBI documents.

Peter looked up from the folder on which he’d been concentrating at the sound of Bryce’s return. “You were in there a while. Do we have enough clearance to know what you were up to?”

“Funny,” Bryce deadpanned, not missing the flinch of pain on Peter’s face and how his hand discreetly reached up to massage his forehead. Shifting the tablet under his left arm, he tossed the watch to Peter. “I was checking in with my friend to debrief him on the situation and get a little help with this.” He turned to Jones and Diana with a nod of thanks—not only had they been on dinner and child pick-up duty, but Bryce had asked them to swing by his hotel to pick up some supplies for his project.

Having effortlessly caught the watch, Peter turned it over in his hands in curiosity. “Considering everything that’s happened today, I’m guessing this is something more than just a watch.” He set it on his wrist and secured it, only to jolt in surprise a moment later.

“What- how did…?” he stammered, lifting a hand to his head once more. “I’ve been feeling that pressure ever since I was exposed to the Intersect, and now it’s _gone_.” Dumbfounded, he turned to Bryce for an explanation.

“It’s a device designed to alleviate the stress that some versions of the Intersect tend to have on the brain. The glitch was fixed a while back, but the fact that you’ve had a headache suggests that our rogue agents are using an older model. This also means that flashing won’t cause any brain deterioration as long as you’re wearing that.” Barely registering Peter’s sickened look at that little factoid, Bryce pulled the tablet out from under his arm and began scrolling on the screen. “Let’s take it for a test drive. Stand up—you too, Elizabeth.”

Peter seemed suspicious, but he obliged, following El in stepping away from the table while the others—including Theo and little Neal—looked on, intrigued.

Bryce couldn’t help but break into a giant grin as he finally found what he was looking for and tapped the screen. Music came blaring out of the tiny tablet speakers.

Upon hearing the first few notes, Peter’s eyes twitched in a flash, only to narrow at Bryce a moment later. “A tango? Really?”

Bryce blinked innocently. “Well, the skills in the Intersect tend to be more straining on the brain, so I figured they would be best to test first. Dance moves were the easiest. As for why a tango…” he trailed off to glance at the audience. Elizabeth, Jones, and Diana were hiding amused smirks, while the two boys were watching in awe. Turning back to Peter, he stage-whispered, “I could have gone with the lambada, but there are children present. This should be fun, though.”

Immediately after he finished his sentence, Bryce felt a chill run down his spine. Peter had surprisingly taken the explanation in stride—in fact, he was even… smiling mischievously.

Bryce barely managed to process that observation before he was yanked into a dramatic dip. Yeah, he _probably_ should have seen that one coming.

Peter glanced down, grinning as the table burst into laughter (and El scrambled to record the scene). “You’re right, this should be fun. Diana and Jones told me something about old friends taking petty revenge?”

For the second time that day, Bryce found himself regretting ever mentioning that particular reaction to his returns from the dead.

Peter continued. “Hope you know the female part, otherwise this isn’t going to be a very successful Intersect test.”

Bryce grumbled to himself before standing upright and assuming the correct position to carry on. It was a bit embarrassing, sure, but he owed it to his New York family happy after the dark times he put them through—it was the least he could do. Just as long as Chuck—or, the horror, _John Casey_ —never heard a word of this event.

* * *

(In the not-too-distant future, Elizabeth passes her phone—cued up to a video file—to a certain former NSA colonel. The fate of the world is put in jeopardy when he breaks into raucous laughter of which he should not be capable.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on Mozzie, since he likely won’t appear in this story (but he could wriggle his way into the final chapter) but he’s been briefly mentioned this time around: for the purposes of this universe, Moz was unaware of Neal-Bryce’s spy secret until after discovering his survival and trying to track him down. This works, but it lands him in the middle of one of Bryce’s missions, forcing Bryce to explain everything. Mozzie initially doesn’t take it too well, but, with Chuck’s help, Bryce makes it up to him by finding Mozzie’s parents—and yes, they’re actually retired spies. Nowadays they run their own little winery, and Mozzie stops by frequently (he was hesitant at first, but his parents explained everything and welcomed him). He and his mother enjoy discussing conspiracy theories over glasses of a nice peppery Pinot.


End file.
